


Here's The Silence (Here's My Last Chance)

by wandasmaximoffs



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Confessions of love, M/M, Weddings, dramatic romantic gestures, grantaire the wedding crasher, jehan is having the time of their life, references to Yellow Paint, this is so self indulgent, weird names, what a generic title im so sorry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-24
Updated: 2016-09-24
Packaged: 2018-08-16 23:59:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,062
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8122648
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wandasmaximoffs/pseuds/wandasmaximoffs
Summary: “Enjolras!” He calls, from the end of the aisle. Every single person in the room turns to him, a sea of shocked and horrified faces staring him down. But he’s not looking at them. He’s looking at Enjolras, half-turned towards him, stock still and angelic.Enjolras doesn’t say anything. He’s frozen, trapped somewhere between star-struck and furious, staring at Grantaire, mouth half-open.(Grantaire crashes Enjolras' wedding.)





	

Grantaire is not supposed to be here.

He _knows_ . He wasn’t even _planning_ on coming, he’d thrown the save the date card in the trash as soon as it arrived, and the official invitation followed.

Grantaire never wanted to be the bitter ex. In fact, he tried actively to make sure that didn’t happen. He kept going to meetings, he joined his friends at their protests and their rallies (And, okay, he’d be lying if he said a little part of him wasn’t in it just to see Enjolras.) He even tolerated meeting _Hugo,_ kept his usual snark in and was as charming as he could be while keeping up his carefully constructed charade of indifference.

Hugo is an environmental lawyer. Hugo met Enjolras through their parents, at a party in the South Hugo likes animals, Hugo can cook Italian food, Hugo is tall and blonde and Hugo treats Enjolras like _shit._

 Grantaire knows he’s not the only one to notice this. He’s seen the looks exchanged between Combeferre and Courfeyrac, the way Joly avoids him like the plague and Bahorel gives such threatening glances.

 

Even Marius sees it, and well-- That should speak for itself.

 

“Do you love him?” Grantaire asks, one day, after they announced their _engagement._ He’d like to say it was purely out of concern for Enjolras, but there was probably something masochistic in there too, salt on a wound that should have healed months ago, were he not so insistent on picking at the stitches.

 Enjolras runs the tips of his fingers over the edge of his glass. They’ve both had a little too much to drink-- Not enough to be drunk, but enough to take away what ever barriers they’d put in front of each other over the past months.

 “Maybe. I Might. But-- No.” Enjolras seems surprised by his own words, and he frowns into his champagne before downing what he has left. “I mean. We’re getting married. Ridiculous, neither of us are religious, it’s just the church trying to capitalise romance. But he insists, it’s just… Easier.”

 Grantaire raises an eyebrow.

  
  “The mighty Apollo is taking the easy way out? Well, I never thought I’d see the day.”

  “Spare me your snark, Grantaire. Some sacrifices have to be made for the greater good.”

  “Unless by “the greater good” you mean your fiance’s sex life, I highly doubt that.”

 

Enjolras opens his mouth, as though to spit back some biting remark, but decides against it, and instead turns his blue eyes on Grantaire.

  _Fuck. Fuck, fuck, shit, shitshitshit--_ (He’s always been weak for those eyes, could wax poetic on how big, how blue, how beautiful they are for so long it’d put even Jehan to shame.)

 “Love isn’t always necessary for a successful marriage.” He says, with such intensity that Grantaire can think of nothing to say in return; Only frowns, still held captive by those ocean eyes, until Enjolras turns on his heel, and walks away.

 

After that, Grantaire doesn't intervene; not during the arguments or the bad-mouthing, not the _billion_ times he left Enjolras waiting, stood him up, let him down, yelled at him, insulted him. Enjolras is not the type to be trodden on, not at all, and so he always yells _back--_ but still. It makes something in Grantaire ache for the “old days,” for soft kisses and stolen hoodies that would smell of his cologne and _God,_ Enjolras never _smiles_ any more, and how the _fuck_ did this happen?

 (Combeferre has a few theories, the most popular being the _money_ Enjolras’ family holds. It’s fucking medieval.)

 

It’s driving Grantaire _crazy._ But he never intervenes.

 

(He does, however, bitch to Cosette as much as physically possible.)

 

All in all, he manages to keep a polite distance. It’s fine. He was doing just _fine._

 And yet, here he is. In the slightly paint-splattered tuxedo he wore to the gallery opening a few months ago and his ratty green converse, hiding behind a long red curtain as a wedding goes on around him.

 

He can see Cosette sitting beside Marius in the front row, shoulder to shoulder as they make a habit of doing. So, _yes,_ he told her he would not, under _any_ circumstances, come to this wedding. And _yes,_ he made a point of explaining why Enjolras getting married should not and _would_ not interest him in the slightest, but he’s here now.

No matter how much he tries, he can’t bring himself to just turn around and walk away. He _should._ He should walk out, go home, _leave_ and forget about the fact that Enjolras is about to marry a man he doesn’t love. This isn’t his fight.

 (He’s lying to himself. For once, it _is_ his fight.)

 

Cosette turns around, and he can tell that she’s spotted him by the way she pales. Grantaire disappears behind the curtain again, and a few seconds later, she appears.

 “Gran _taire,_ ” She hisses, grabbing his arm. “I swear to God, if you’re--”

“I’m not drunk.”

“Grantaire--”

“I’m _not drunk,_ Cosette. I just… I can’t not tell him. He needs to know, I need-- I need him to know.”

 

Cosette looks him up and down. Physically, she knows she couldn’t stop him if he wanted to run up there and tackle Hugo where he stands. She’s not sure she’d even want to _stop_ him, if the risk of him getting himself hurt, again, weren’t so large. She _remembers_ when he and Enjolras broke up, she remembers the aftermath of it. They were both hurting, but both were too stubborn to try and fix anything. And right now, he looks so desperate, desperate to tell Enjolras the truth before it's too late, before everything is said and done and he never gets any form of closure.

 She sighs, and lets him go. “Go get him, tiger.”

 

"Thank you, biscuit." Grantaire grins, all adrenaline and anxiety, and sprints past the curtains and the benches until he’s staring directly down the hall and at the couple standing in front of the priest.

 

“Enjolras!” He calls, from the end of the aisle. Every single person in the room turns to him, a sea of shocked and horrified faces staring him down. But he’s not looking at them. He’s looking at Enjolras, half-turned towards him, stock still and angelic.

  _What am I doing?_ He thinks wildly, trying his best to ignore the crowd surrounding them. He has a lot to say, and not much time to say it in.

 “You don’t love him, Enjolras. You said it yourself. You don’t love him. Maybe-- Maybe I’m wrong, maybe I’m just being selfish, and you’ll probably never forgive me for this, but I can’t-- Jesus _Christ._ I love you. I _love_ you, and I can’t let you throw your whole fucking _life_ away on a man who doesn’t even care about you!”

 

Enjolras doesn’t say anything. He’s frozen, trapped somewhere between star-struck and furious, staring at Grantaire, mouth half-open. Hugo, beside him, looks downright _murderous._ (That gives Grantaire a sort of savage pleasure, to see the smug smirk usually plastered across his face wiped away.)

 

That’s it. That’s all he needs to say, he could walk away right now and never think about this again. But the words bubble up past his throat and off his tongue and _Jesus,_ he can’t stop.

 “I love you so much,” He says, shoving his hands in his pockets, face a picture of desperation. “I never-- I never stopped loving you. Not when we broke up, not-- Not before. Not after. Not once, since we met that first time, and I--”

 Grantaire takes a breath, and risks a glance to his left. Cosette looks heartbroken. Combeferre’s eyes are bulging out of his head, and Courfeyrac is smiling so wide he could probably count his teeth. Jehan has their hands clasped over their heart.

  _Ha, of course Jehan is getting a kick out of this,_ Grantaire thinks, _This is their forte. Big romantic gestures._

 

“I’m not asking you to love me back,” He continues, tearing his eyes away from his friends and back to Enjolras, who is looking more star-struck than furious by now, “I’m not. That-- Well, I wouldn’t say _no_ to it, but-- _Anyway_. I’m not asking you to love me back. I’m just asking you not to marry this steaming pile of horse shit. For your own sake.”

 Grantaire finishes, looking down at the ground, and the room is silent, for a few agonizing seconds.

 

“You have paint on your cheek,” Says Enjolras, and Hugo chokes. (So does Grantaire.)

 “I-- What?”

“You have paint. On your cheek. Yellow paint.”

 

Enjolras turns, and Hugo’s hand darts out to catch his wrist.

 “Babe,” He says, almost _sneers,_ glancing at Grantaire and then back again. “You’re not seriously going to let some drunk asshole ruin our _wedding,_ right?”

 

(To the left of them, Bahorel bristles.)

 

Enjolras closes his eyes. He’s no stranger to break-ups. He’s been cold before, cut ties with less than five words and burned bridges even quicker. (He never expected to be doing it at the altar, on his own wedding day, but he’s heard Grantaire say it before; _“Life works in mysterious ways, or some shit like that.”_ )

“Hugo,” He says, “I do not love you. This wedding-- Our whole _relationship--_ Is done.” And with that, he pries his wrist from his grasp, and before Grantaire can even _register_ what just happened, he’s walking towards him.

 “Holy fucking _shit,_ ” Says Marius.

 

Grantaire was not expecting this. He was expecting maybe to be escorted out by security, or just Bahorel if he was _really_ lucky. Dismissed as a drunk asshole looking to start trouble. But now Enjolras is standing in front of him, all sharp angles and blue eyes and that halo he calls _hair_ , and he reaches out to brush his thumb over Grantaire’s cheek.

 Hugo must be throwing a fit behind them, but Grantaire is not paying attention to that. He has bigger fish to fry right now.

 

“Got it,” Says Enjolras, and Grantaire blinks in confusion. “The paint. I got it.”

“Oh,” Breathes Grantaire, completely stunned. “That’s good. That’s from, um, probably from a painting for the--”

 Grantaire does not finish his thought, as Enjolras leans forward and kisses him so sweetly and so deeply he sees stars. It’s like their first kiss all over again, up on the roof, except this time there’s less hesitation and more desperation. It’s so intense that Grantaire gets _dizzy._

 There’s a collective gasp from the congregation, and Enjolras pulls back to see the gleeful stares of his friends meeting the judgemental glares of his and Hugo’s families, and he frowns.

 

“We can finish this outside,” He mutters, and Grantaire nods, still completely dazed. “One second.”

 Surely this is not happening. Surely he’s dreaming. _Surely--_

 Enjolras turns his head slightly to face Hugo, and his voice is genuine and full of sincerity when he says, “I’m sorry.”

 

Hugo shakes his head, and his response is written clearly across his face; _Our families will never forgive you for this._

 

“Come on,” He breathes, nodding once at their friends before turning back to Grantaire and taking his hand, leading him out the arched doors and into the street. The room behind them erupts into chaos, with cheering and yelling and a few threats, but Enjolras doesn’t look back. Not once.

 They don’t stop until they reach the end of the street, ducking inside some hole in the wall cafe that definitely does not serve the fair trade coffee Enjolras is so fond of.

 

“Enjolras--”

“Shut up,” Enjolras smiles, despite himself, and Grantaire shuts his mouth. “Let me-- Let me speak, okay?”

 Grantaire nods, and Enjolras takes a deep breath. (He’s never been one for emotional displays.)

 “I never stopped loving you either. I thought _you_ did-- It doesn’t matter what I thought. But this is going to be hard, okay? We’re going to have put some-- Some serious work into this. I just left a man at the altar. You crashed my _wedding._ ”

 “I’d do it again,” Says Grantaire, defiant, and Enjolras grins.

 “I’d count on it.” Enjolras’ gaze flickers from his eyes to his lips, and Grantaire’s a goner. “I love you so fucking much, Grantaire, you don’t even know--”

  
“God,” Grantaire laughs, and leans in to him. “Shut up and just _kiss me.”_

**Author's Note:**

> fuck knows what this is my lads, i had my itunes on shuffle and caught some retro swift. yes lmao i think im a comedic genius w the name hugo. as always this is prolly riddled with typos cause it's like 5am. comments and kudos are always appreciated, and u can always hit me up with prompts or whatever on tumblr @ jehanprouvaiire <3 <3


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